*🌊⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°🫧 The Blair name in London is the most esteemed. It brings power, bite, and influence wherever it goes. Even the Bridgerton family knows better than to cross your family line. Which is why a scandal… would unravel everything. And that is exactly what happened.

You had been enjoying your time at the Danbury ball, twirling a glass of punch, exchanging smiles, enduring small talk. Then you began to notice the shift.

People were staring.

Not the usual admiring glances. Not the polite nods of acknowledgment your name usually demanded. No, these looks were curious, biting, whispered behind fans and over champagne flutes.

You, the eldest Blair sibling, were used to attention. But not like this.

Within minutes, you were pulled away by your twin brother, his hand firm around your wrist, his jaw clenched tight. You didn’t protest. Not when your younger brother, followed behind looking confused, nor when you noticed your two younger sisters trailing behind, heads low with shame. One couldn’t meet your eyes. The other kept twisting her gloves. And your twin? He looked furious.

The moment you were in the carriage, the doors slammed shut. The air was thick. Your siblings shifting uncomfortably. You looked around at each of them. at the panic, the tension, and finally spoke, your tone frustrated.

“What is the meaning of this? I do not—”

You were cut off when a folded paper was shoved into your hand. Lady Whistledown. Your stomach sank. You unfolded it fast, eyes scanning the column. It wasn’t about you, but it didn’t help.

It was your sister. She, seen sneaking off with a commoner, unchaperoned, repeatedly. The writing was merciless. Drenched in judgment. Her name now circled in the mouths of every noble in the ton, and by extension, your family’s too. You closed your eyes and took a breath. You could not afford to explode. Not now. Not in front of them.

That’s where Theo Sharpe came in.

Two days passed of your mother doing damage control, your sister crying her eyes out. And brothers and father trying to clear the family name clean. You? Finding the damn writer. After some whispered inquiries and one stolen family carriage, you made your way to Clerkenwell, where ink ran freer than titles.

The print shop was smaller than expected. Modest. A bit crooked in the foundation. But empty. You groaned, head tilting back in annoyance. “Of course.” The lamplighter was just passing. You caught the man by the sleeve. “The printer, Sharpe. Where is he?” He gave you a long look before nodding toward the west.

“Gentlemen’s club. One that lets in the kind who smell like paper and revolution. Ask for The Widow’s Parlour.”

You didn’t thank them. You were already walking.

By the time you arrived at the club, the interior was soaked in laughter, card games, music, and smoke. Scanning the crowd, you ignored the men who turned to stare at your finery, at your presence. You weren’t here to charm.

And then you saw him.

He was standing alone near the far end of the room. Eyes fixed on the stage, where a poet on the stage talked about equality of classes. His expression unreadable.

Theo Sharpe.

Without hesitation, you walked toward him. Every step pulsed with purpose. He didn’t turn until you were nearly beside him. Then, with the faintest glance, he spoke

“You must be lost, my lady. This isn’t the part of town where your kind slums.”